


Of Spies, Sewers, and Silence

by Gear



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Drabbles, Ficlets, Gen, alexrider100
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gear/pseuds/Gear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble fills for AlexRider100.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Stain**

 

"Hey, Alex! New car for you up front!" yells Mike, the shift supervisor.

Alex stands up and wipes his hands on his jumpsuit, ignoring the stains that his greasy hands must be causing. "Be there in a minute," he calls back.

As he emerges into the sunlight, he hears a voice that, while  _seeming_  familiar, he can't place. Falling back into old habits, ones that he hasn't needed in  _years_ – not since he managed to escape the clutches of MI6– he slips around the corner, unseen. He sees a short, dark man talking to Mike, but he doesn't bother trying to hear the conversation. His mind is too preoccupied trying to figure out what the  _hell_  Wolf is doing here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Keys**

 **  
**

_Keys_ , Alex thought contemptuously,  _are for people with no creativity._ A soft click sounded and the doorknob turned smoothly. Alex allowed himself to smirk at the lax security as he pocketed his lock picks. He opened the door slowly– the hinges were new so they  _shouldn't_ creek, but still ... he  _was_  MI6's top spy. He moved silently across the wood floor, his earlier reconnaissance mission proving worthwhile. He reached his mark's room, sliding the dresser drawer open and sprinkling his burden in it.

That itching powder would definitely make Tom think twice about putting frogs in his bed again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Razor**

 

 _Occam's Razor_ _:_ _the simplest explanation is most likely the correct one._

According to Occam, the blond, Russian man sitting in front of me should be dead. Should've been dead years ago when he got shot. Should've been dead when I watched him bleed out. Should be six feet under. The man who is currently sipping his of coffee ( _black, two sugars_ ) and picking apart a croissant ( _shredding it, hasn't eaten any yet_ ) while telling me how he managed to survive ( _fake_   _assassin, MI6 operative, deep cover, blood bag, bullet proof vest_ ).

Yassen Gregorovitch clearly holds no truck with Occam's Razor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sometimes**

 

Sometimes Alex goes down to the café around the corner and orders a coffee- large, black, no sugar (the waitress recognizes him. He tries not to let it make him too nervous). He watches the people go by; tries to guess where they're going, what they're doing. He never stops any of them to see if he's right, he never flirts with the barista or chats with the customers. He's always careful to remain an observer, never a participant. He hasn't let himself go  _that_ much.

Other times, he stays home. He just can't make himself care enough to move.


	5. Chapter 5

**Watch**

 

The watch is a work of art. It's the culmination of years of learning. It has been packed with so many gadgets, devices, and add-ons that Smithers is a little surprised that it isn't bursting at the seams. But of course it isn't– he is the best after all. He builds things. There's Jane, who he just sent off with a new hair tie ( _diamond core_ ), Ben who just received a jacket ( _bullet-knife-fire-water proof_ ) and countless others. His favorite is Alex, who gives him the challenge of being a teen. But all of them are  _his_. And, therefore, he protects them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Misunderstanding**

 

The doorbell rings. Jack freezes.  _Alex. He was supposed to be back last week. Not Alex. He would have let himself in_. She moves to the window. The police car is parked like it has all the right in the world to be there.  _Alex is dead._  The doorbell rings again, and this time, Jack gathers her courage and moves to the door, already fighting back tears.

"Ma'am? There was a burglary last night at your neighbor's house. We were wondering if you saw anything suspicious."

Jack almost laughs, only barely managing to keep it in. She  _does_  sag a little against the doorframe.  _Just a misunderstanding._

_  
_

  



	7. Chapter 7

**Weapon**

 

Anything can be a weapon. Alex knows this well: jellyfish, tea cups, and teenage boys, can serve just as well as sniper guns, knives, and poison depending on the circumstances. This, however, might just take the cake. Coming down on a Sunday morning to see Wolf and Ben dueling (possibly to the death, Alex hasn't had enough time to judge) over the last cup of coffee, Wolf armed with a sofa cushion, Fox holding a pillow in front of him like a shield. Alex observes the rest of the fight, torn between amusement and disdain, sipping his newly acquired coffee.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with X-Men

**Organs**

 

"Damn it! Pass me his liver will you Cub?" Said Snake.

Alex was fully willing to admit that, while he knew about mutants, there was a huge difference between knowing, in the hypothetical, that some people had the healing factor, and the entirely  _surreal_  experience of being asked to hand over an internal organ. Still, he did as he was asked, and Snake, after a brief thanks, shoved it into Wolf's (Wolverine's? Logan's?  _James'?_ Alex had no idea what to call his former teammate) abdomen.

 _What,_ Alex thought,  _does it say about me that this isn't even one of my top ten weirdest days?_

_  
_

  



	9. Chapter 9

**Child**

Terrorists, psychopaths, and landmines, Wolf could take; this kid however, might just break him. It wasn't even that he was a bad kid. Entirely the opposite, he was what you might think of as the model child: quiet, reserved, and entirely self-sufficient. He fed himself, came with clothes, he even cleaned for god's sake. But he wasn't … normal. He wasn't just quiet; he was silent. He wasn't just reserved; he lived in self-made isolation. He was self-sufficient - in that he was used to only being able to rely on himself. He was … off. And it scared Wolf.


	10. Chapter 10

**Candy**

Alex's first instinct when he sees the heart-shaped box is to throw it away. He immediately rebels against it; he hadn't been involved with MI6 or the CIA or anything for decades, and if someone still wanted to kill him, it would more likely be by sniper than chocolate. Still, the intuition that kept him alive for half a dozen years is hard to suppress, and he wavered back and forth for several moments before finally deciding that he could risk it. He savored the candies the rich dark chocolate as it melted on his tongue. They taste like freedom.


	11. Chapter 11

**Magic**

Clarke's Third Law: Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

When Alex thinks of magic, he thinks not of Harry Potter like his peers. Instead, his mind is drawn to the jovial, genius of a man who has saved his life too many times to count. And he manages to do so without ever once being on the scene. He casts an understated, unobtrusive, sneaky kind of spell, a safety net around Alex, but only if he's smart enough to find the key. Smithers makes his gadgets, enough to keep him alive, but only if he uses his brain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Greed**

I grew up in Moscow, and was orphaned very early on. I grew up with starvation as my constant companion. Have you ever been so hungry that your stomach begins to shrivel up, your belly becomes bloated, and you feel like you're digesting yourself from the inside out? I have. Scorpia was the first time I had a steady supply of food. I have no illusions about what I do. I kill for money; I kill so I'll never be hungry again. And if that makes me greedy, so be it. There are worse things. I could be killing for fun.


	13. Chapter 13

**Reveal**

Scorpia captured Alex early in the morning on Sunday. The board spent most of Monday and some of Tuesday debating and deliberating about what to do with him. It was decided by teatime. They would do a great uncover; they would expose MI6's top spy, a small, vulnerable, boy of only sixteen years, and list all of his accomplishments, training, and missions on national television, all while emphasizing his youth (the Scorpia mission would be left out; they had no need to stress their own weakness. Just that of their opponents). And then they would shoot him, also on national television. They would succeed threefold- embarrassing and undermining the government by showing how low they had sunk, to rely on a child, removing a powerful enemy by killing Alex, and announcing to the world that Scorpia was not gone and would never be.

Alex knew about this – loose-lipped captors were always a plus – so he decided, as he aimed a hard kick to one of his guards' throat, to avoid all the messiness of a grand reveal to Britain's public by the simple expedient of not showing up.


	14. Chapter 14

**Touch**

Touch used to be the least reliable of all his senses. Sight was his most favored, useful for everything from rooting out figures in camouflage green and tan to identifying Snake's incriminating grin to quickly recognizing Fox's bright red hair in a crowd. Hearing was next, giving useful forewarning about a round of bullets behind him or the location of his men. Then of course there was the mysterious sixth sense, the ability to tell if people are creeping up on you, the warning shiver down the spine that any good soldier – any soldier who makes it past the age of thirty-five – quickly learns to cultivate. Taste was a bit trickier, it certainly didn't come up as much, but it too had come in useful – saved his life – on several occasions, detecting poison (or laxatives when Snake was feeling particularly brave) in his coffee. Touch used to be the most useless of all his senses. Now it's the only way that he can see the world, through vibrations in his white cane, and subtle changes in the temperature and texture of the environment around him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Silver**

Alex buried himself deeper into the shadows while making sure to hold the pendant that concealed a tiny video recorder steady.

This was certainly one of his easier missions; it actually consisted only of surveillance, none of this 'Well, we think that this guy might be doing something that the government and/or public may object to in some unspecified fashion. Possibly. So we want you to go undercover there and see what's going on. Of course you won't have to do anything. Just take a look. We'll pull you out whenever you need … really … why are you looking at me like that?' It wasn't even that long of a mission – just go to an alley in London and record an exchange and bring the tape back to us. Simple enough.

And here they were, right on time, one holding a backpack, the other toting a rolling suitcase. Alex was too far away to hear what was being said, but by the looks of it, Backpack wanted to see the goods before turning over his part of the deal. The suitcase was laid out and unzipped, revealing brick upon brick of silver. Suddenly, Alex found his mental odds of this turning out to be a straightforward mission plummeting. That much money never meant anything good.


	16. Chapter 16

**Breathe**

 

The knife glinted like a beacon in the darkness. The knife's owner (or, in this case, bearer – the woman didn't tend to pay much attention to the sanctity of others' possessions at the best of times, and this was most assuredly not the best of times for her) took a slow step forwards. Alex took a carefully measured pace backwards. The deadly game of chicken continued for several yards. It would have carried on longer if not for the fact that Alex was now balanced on the very edge of the dock, trapped between the knife-wielding woman and the icy waters of the Hudson, and could make no further retreat. The woman remained where she was for a few seconds, allowing Alex to take several quick, shallow breathes, trying to infuse his blood with oxygen. Alex quickly scanned his surroundings, hoping against hope there might be some other way out of this. Nothing presented itself.

The woman, still holding the knife in an offensive position, lunged forward. In the same instant, Alex leapt backwards, allowing himself to sink into the water. Despite his preparations, he found that the frigid temperature was almost enough to make him inhale. His hard earned self control prevailed and he forced himself to stay under. Until he saw the flash of silver that would indicate that the woman had thrown the knife and was no longer a threat, it would be a – potentially deadly – mistake to provide her with a target. After that, it would be safe for him to come to the surface. Unless, of course she had another knife, Alex thought, Or was waiting for him to come up and breathe, holding on to the knife he knew she had until he rose, gasping for air and vulnerable. Or – but wait, there it was! Alex scrabbled for the hilt, hoping to arm himself against further assault. He shoved the blade into his belt, setting off flashing mental lights and blaring physiological alarms trying to warn him that stowing an unsheathed blade anywhere on his person was criminally stupid. He ignored them.

By then, his lungs had begun to burn, rebelling against the denial of air. He stayed down for some time longer, forcing himself to wait until he began to feel faint. Then, seeing no other option, he pushed himself up, gulping down air as he breached the surface. A quick glance toward the dock proved that the woman had abandoned the hunt for the night. Not given up – womannever gave up (not while she was still breathing anyway, and possibly not after she stopped either), and she was famous for it in seven countries and wanted by the authorities in three more because of it. But her temporary retreat meant that it was – probably – safe for Alex to climb out and walk (more of a damp squelch really) back to his hotel room.

He would have preferred to take a cab, but even if he still had the money for the fare, and even if cabs ran down in this part of the city, the cabbies would have refused to take him. And, Alex thought ruefully looking down at himself, I wouldn't blame them. I wouldn't take me, and I am me. I'm covered in mud, disgusting dock scum, river water, and – here he swore violently in Spanish as he saw a muddy red liquid dripping off his fiver tips. Wiping the worst of the muck off on his shirt revealed that he had, indeed cut his hand on the knife. Further inspection revealed that while it would not require stitches it probably would need quite a bit of wrapping. And rubbing alcohol – Alex didn't even want to think about what kind of nasty diseases might be in the accumulated mess. Not to mention that it would take out his dominant hand for weeks.

Alex's trip back to the hotel was blessedly uneventful. He had been sure that, just to round the day off, he would get mugged or caught up in a turf war or something. It seemed that someone had decided to take pity on him, or – more likely – the locals just decided that the grubby, wet, bleeding boy with the knife wasn't worth bothering with. Either way, the worst of the trip was a dirty look from the receptionist.

As tempted as he was to collapse straight into bed, Alex knew he would regret it in the morning. Especially considering that the dunking he had endured would probably be enough to give him relatively severe hypothermia. Not the sort of thing you want to deal with when people are out for your blood. The scalding hot shower was heavenly, and even the sharp sting of peroxide couldn't bring down the feeling of being clean again. His last thought before he fell into a deep dreamless sleep was, At least it wasn't raw sewage this time. That stuff's just nasty.


	17. Chapter 17

**For Want of a Match**

 

Once upon a time (though not so long ago), and perhaps not so very far away, a match was lost. It wasn't a particularly special match, just a simple, red headed, slender piece of wood. A kitchen match. You've probably seen one just like it a hundred times, and any of them would have done. This just happened to be the only one available at the time.

For want of a match, a spy was lost. You see, there was this box of explosives, and well, being able to light them would have saved his life. Oh, well. He was just a cog in a well-oiled machine, right? And the best machines are redundant, right? So it really didn't matter that a fourteen-year-old boy died; there are always others. Something of a self-perpetuating natural resource. And it was for the greater good, so it was okay. Right?

For want of a spy the number was lost. Well, a set of numbers if you want to get  _really_ specific. A coordinate to be exact. Just a short set of numbers that, if interpreted properly would lead you to a small nondescript building in the middle of nowhere. And, well if there happened to be a handful of bombs inside the building, it didn't matter too much did it?

For want of a number a plan was lost. Not lost, precisely, just … mislaid, perhaps you could say. And if the best-laid plans always fail, I hate to think what happens to the worst ones.

For want of a plan the battle was lost. It's sort of funny what happens when a group of highly trained soldiers is sent in facing one way, highly alert for any sign of the enemy, guns out, and then it turns out the enemy was behind them all the time. Well, ironic at least. Dead men don't tend to make for the best comedy.

For want of a battle the city was lost. Most of it anyway. The bits above ground at any rate. There was quite a bit of rubble and the subways were preserved with amazing accuracy they said. And there were survivors. Some. Out of almost eight million people, a few hundred thousand survived. The experts said that even that was amazing.

And it was all for the want of a match.


	18. Chapter 18

**Unfixed Definitions**

Safe has taken on so many different meanings for Alex over the years. It is such a fluid, indefinable, thing that he has no idea, which was 'correct' which he should envy himself for.

When he was five, his idea of safe was his uncle's arms, so strong and powerful that their owner could not possibly be shifted, could not possibly be taken away. Ian was so very good, and so very smart and so very tough that not even the most frightening of monsters that lived in the dark could possibly penetrate his protection. Could they?

It turned out that they could. Ian was only a man, mortal and destructible. The soft thud of a bullet hitting home could part that security like a hot knife through butter.

Soon after he becomes a teen, soon after he becomes a spy (amusing how they coincide so nicely, isn't it? Not really), his idea of safety changed. Now, safety was any time when people weren't actively trying to kill him. This encompassed most of the time he was not on a mission, though on occasion his work came home with him. A pretty simple equation actually: on a mission equals not safe. Not on a mission equals safe. Well, safe enough anyway.

His definition was updated pretty soon after that. He made enemies. They cared little about the sanctity of 'not on a mission'. They were not the kind of enemies who would say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'll come back tomorrow, here's my calling card'. Safe became an illusion, something that happened to other people, a faint and distant memory to be taken out on occasion and admired.

But safety is one of the basic human needs, and as such, all humans will seek it out above all else. His safety-less state did not last long, not in terms of a human's life span, but it was very nearly long enough to break him.

Now 'safe' changes from day to day. Maybe it's a SAS unit; maybe it's a house. Maybe it's a bar of chocolate; maybe it's a café. He never knows until he gets there.


	19. Chapter 19

**Party**

In retrospect, Snake realized that it might just have been a bad idea to surprise an S.A.S. soldier in his own home. But then, everything is 20/20 in hindsight.

Had this revelation come earlier, perhaps he would have managed to call off the surprise birthday party. As it was, the entire unit and all of James' friends were already there and hiding and James himself was just minutes away from entering his apartment. His only option was to hope for the best, and pray that James was in a good mood. Well. Not too bad of a mood anyway. It was the subject of some debate in the mess hall as to whether Wolf was capable of good moods.

Luckily, it turned out that he was, and that he only started a little bit when they rose from their hiding places – not that they were particularly good hiding places, S A S soldiers tend to avoid flats with good hiding spots – though he did reach for an absent gun. The party went off without a hitch, although as a note for future, Eagle has a peanut allergy.


	20. Chapter 20

**Poison**

 

Alex Rider had lived his life defying expectations.

K-unit had expected him to get binned within a few hours. He made it through the entire two weeks: a fortnight longer than many others, all older and better trained.

MI6 had expected him to keep working for them until he died (granted, they did not believe he would live far past the age of sixteen). To their surprise, he had survived: breaking out of their bonds with almost contemptuous ease after Jack had left for America. Attempts to clean up their biggest mistake were foiled with trademark condescension.

Scorpia had expected him to be soft, pliable; easy to mold and easier to kill; a replica of his father with the same weaknesses. He was not. Not by any measure.

Look at this pattern. It almost makes sense, doesn't it? Alex Rider had lived by defying expectations, why should his death be any different? Tom had thought Alex would die a heroic death, saving people from a burning building perhaps, or schoolchildren from a building about to blow. At the time she had lived with Alex, Jack had been in almost constant fear that she would get a call from the police, or Alex would keel over during the middle of a meal, pale and choking from poison slipped into his food (she didn't buy take-away anymore, and always checked the seals on cans) or she would go to his room to wake him up and she would find him dead. Or even worse, he would not be there at all and she would never hear of him again, except perhaps in a short briefing in which she was told never to talk about him or try to contact him.

Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones had been certain that he would die on a mission – after all, he had come close enough so many times. Lady Luck would only let him slip by so many times, and his quota was rapidly approaching.

But Alex lived to destroy expectations and he died that way too. His cause of death was determined by the coroner's office as cirrhosis of the liver. Another expectation shattered – no one thought he would be weak enough to turn to alcohol .Jack had been right with her fears of poison, but it was poison of a different ilk: self-inflicted He was forty-six, almost three times MI6's most generous upper limit. He died alone.


End file.
